


The Game is On

by clearinghouse



Series: The Family of Lord Lestrade [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Consensual, Kissing, M/M, Polygamy, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 05:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8565445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: Sherlock is thrilled that Greg and Mycroft are learning to not hide their feelings. It seems that he and John may have learned a little about that, too. Kisses and embraces are shared—some for the first time—and proof is made of the bonds between the four of them.





	

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. One of his elbows fell flat against the table, while the other turned upright as Sherlock brought his drink to his lips. “You’ve come a long way. You should be very proud.”

Greg smirked at him. “Is that right?”

“I remember when I first came across you in this very place,” Sherlock said. He found that he liked remembering how fascinating Greg had been at that moment, and how friendly, soon after. Sherlock waved his glass at the relatively quiet public house around them. “You didn’t think you’d ever get hitched to that customs agent you fancied so much.”

Greg smiled to himself. “I got a lot more than a customs agent, you know.”

“Yes, well, however you like. My point is, you must have done something extraordinary, because, after all this time, it’s come to this. Married to Mycroft. Married to me.” Sherlock peered haughtily at his partner. “Trying not to think about John.”

“Hey, it’s not that I’m trying not to think about John,” Greg contested with a small laugh. “I’m just trying not to think about how I get to have sex with him now.”

Sherlock covered his mouth in exaggerated surprise and offence at Greg’s blunt language. 

That set off Greg’s drunken good mood like a match to a firecracker. “Oh, my bad!” Greg covered his own mouth too, but he couldn’t keep up the pretence of maintaining sombre sobriety. He laughed aloud.

Light feathers filled Sherlock’s chest. He was glad to see Greg completely at ease, especially in Sherlock’s company.

Though, that was the reason why Sherlock had brought Greg here. To blow off some steam. They hadn’t come here since the marriage, and never before had they come as a pair. Today, Greg needed to take the edge off, and so did Sherlock. They were too impatient for their own good.

It was all because of their brothers. 

Yesterday, Mycroft had turned unpredictable. Sherlock couldn't make sense of his older brother's feelings. After all, Mycroft had promised to make use of Sherlock. So, why hadn't he done that? So far today, Mycroft had only been interested in kisses on the cheek, and little else. They had melted Sherlock’s conflicted heart. Did Mycroft suppose that what he had done to Sherlock last night had satisfied his promise to use Sherlock? 

Sherlock was certain he could be more useful to Mycroft than that.

The wait to find out exactly how was taxing all of Sherlock’s keen nerves.

Sherlock sighed. He knew that Mycroft was proceeding slowly, that was all. Frankly, Sherlock believed that Mycroft knew no other pace at which to proceed. Sherlock would have to learn to be patient. 

It was only fair. Mycroft had, after all, moved past all his hesitations regarding fraternal intimacy for Sherlock’s sake. Even before that, Mycroft had already given him so much. That's what this drama was all about, he supposed, from the very beginning. Sherlock needing to give something back to his generous older brother.

Still, Sherlock had no power over his own feelings. The wait was driving him mad. He wanted at long last to feel Mycroft’s self-control crumble. He needed to know that Mycroft needed him.

And Greg, too, Sherlock mused darkly. 

He asked himself, what were Greg’s limits of self-control?

Greg, like Sherlock, was his own restrained bundle of desire. At the moment, he was taking turns between resting his limbs on the table, or holding his neck, or steadying his knee. Greg generally liked to have his hands on something, Sherlock observed.

That Greg had confessed and embraced a terrible want for John yesterday was no surprise. Sherlock had known for certain about Greg’s feelings for John since Greg had rubbed himself against John on the night after the horse-riding. Even before his confession, Greg had all but admitted it on his own during the previous morning, when he’d help Sherlock find the courage to face Mycroft.

Greg was a caring man, and full of affection. Sherlock would never know how to say it out loud in the right way, but he was genuinely glad that Greg’s dream for closeness with John had come true. Or, at least, it had come true once, last night. That wouldn’t be the only time, Sherlock was sure. Sherlock refused to consider otherwise. He would again see Greg and John become two parts of one beautiful, indescribable whole. 

Sherlock was impatient for Greg to have John in whichever way he wanted, and to watch John fall apart so satisfyingly once more. In a way, it hadn’t been different from those times when he watched Greg and Mycroft be together, or Mycroft and John, except, perhaps, for the fact that Greg and John had needed to overcome a lifetime of boundaries and personal distance.

In any case, that was why Greg had agreed to come here with Sherlock. Like Sherlock, Greg wanted more from John, with a reckless passion, but, like Mycroft, John was not in a hurry. That morning, John had been all contented smiles, hugs, and kisses. 

Sherlock knew that his Greg could never bring himself to overwhelm John with his own desires. Besides, Greg likely wanted to convince John that he wished to establish not only new physical relations, but emotional ones as well, or so he had told Sherlock. That was why Greg had only kissed and held John to wish him good morning, with effort of self-restraint but with genuine pleasure, too.

So, Sherlock and Greg waited. 

At least they had each other.

Sherlock smiled behind his glass. Would Greg lose patience and take Sherlock instead, right here in this bar? Greg had treated him so tenderly last night. It had felt good, when Greg had used him. The memory of it was beautifully sharp and bitterly sweet in his mind. Sherlock shouldn’t be thinking about it. It made him feel hot. 

“Sherlock.”

A blink. “Yes?”

“This is nice, isn’t it? You and me, spending some bachelor time together like we used to. I couldn’t even say what we’re doing right now exactly, but whatever it is, we’re doing it together. It’s good.”

Sherlock blushed with shame. If Greg was happy enough to be with him, then Sherlock should be able to be happy enough, too. “Yes, it is.”

Greg sighed nostalgically. “I always did look forward to coming round and finding you here. I could share anything with you. You didn’t care about where I’ve come from, just about what I had to say. I never told you how grateful I was, did I?” Greg’s feelings shone through brilliantly in the combination of joy and sadness in his eyes. “Most people won’t be friends with a noble. But you, you were good. You just wanted a drink with a bloke.”

Sherlock stared at Greg. He’d never fancied that his random intrusions meant that much to the man.

Greg didn’t stop smiling, but he looked down at the table. “I guess I really didn’t tell you. It was nice, though. I thought at first you were someone looking for an easy night with a forgettable stranger, but you even got that I’m a nobleman, and it didn’t bother you a bit. I was just a normal person that someone else could talk to, for a change.”

“You’re no normal person,” Sherlock said hastily, rather alarmed at this part of the proclamation. 

There was a pause in Greg’s semi-drunken rambling.

Embarrassment coloured Sherlock’s cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Of course you weren’t a normal person. Normal people are boring. You were… noteworthy. A plainly-dressed nobleman. Who cared about things. Like Mycroft, for one.”

“I cared about you,” Greg murmured.

It was Sherlock’s turn to pause.

“Or did you forget, that I was all set to be with Mycroft in the day, and to be with you at night? Whether or not you meant it, I was definitely going into marriage with that in mind.” Underneath the cover of the table, Greg’s strong, gentle hand flew from his knee to rest on Sherlock’s. “What I mean is, I’m not the guy to sleep with someone I don’t like, and I was planning on sleeping with you. I cared about you.”

Sherlock could feel his and Greg’s loosely defined friendship enveloping him, enticing him to lose himself to the sense of security and merriment that Greg’s company lent to him. All the ease that Greg felt, he was trying to share with Sherlock.

But Sherlock didn’t want to be soothed today. An unbidden arousal was burning all the way through Sherlock’s fingers. He wanted to explode.

“You meant something to me even then.” Greg added, his voice slurring only a tiny bit. “That was before I knew you were related to Mycroft, and way before I knew that John would be keen for you. What we shared last night meant a lot to me, too. I was afraid to do that sort of thing with you, but, if you liked it also, then, why not? You’re good for me, and I want you to know that.” Greg’s hand moved away from its suggestive position on Sherlock’s knee, to clap him amiably on the back. “All I mean is, you make me very happy, Sherlock, rudeness and all.”

“Greg!” Sherlock hissed. He couldn’t take much more of this. “I’m sorry.”

That finally induced Greg to drop his smile. “What’s that? Why are you sorry?”

“I’m sorry, because I want more.” Sherlock’s voice fell to a whisper. “More of you.”

“More?”

“Yes, more. More time with you, more talking with you. But, even more than that. I felt… special. When you used me, and made a show of me, in front of John, and Mycroft. When you trusted me enough to let it happen. I was… proud.” Sherlock lowered his voice. “It was good! I liked that you did that with me! And it has to happen again!”

Unabashed affection and desire painted Greg’s beautiful face. “Yeah, sure.”

“When?” Sherlock was insistent. “Soon?”

“Eh, how soon would you like? Or, were you thinking, now?” 

“Now? As in, here?” Sherlock snorted at the joke. As wonderful as that sounded, Sherlock didn’t expect anything as indecent as that from Greg. It would be a bit beyond even Sherlock to make such a scene in the middle of a public house.

Greg smiled again. “Anything for my husband,” he said.

“What?” Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You are… serious?”

A deceptively casual shrug bounced Sherlock’s concern. “Anything for you.” Greg’s hand slowly moved back to Sherlock’s knee, then up his leg. 

This time, there was no argument from Sherlock. There was that familiar exciting rush, of not knowing precisely what was about to happen whenever someone who mattered so much decided to pay attention to Sherlock. It was frightening. It was intoxicating.

Greg only made gentle circles in Sherlock’s thigh. “Good?” Greg asked, in a low voice.

Sherlock nodded as his breathing rapidly increased in speed. It was very good. Sherlock wanted more. He wanted Greg so terribly. “What about the people here? Don’t you mind them?”

“Not really. I guess I only see you in here.” 

“But, it doesn’t matter, it wouldn’t work, anyway… I can’t do anything for you from this position…”

“If you can sit and relax from that position, then that’s all I want you to do.”

Kind fingers found Sherlock’s hip, and felt for the growing interest that was poorly concealed nearby. Another rush of excitement and adrenaline ran through Sherlock. He bit his lip, still not knowing what would come next, but trusting Greg completely. 

“How do you like this?” Suddenly, those kind fingers gripped him through his clothes, and began to stealthily stroke. 

“Ah...” The delightful feel of Greg’s hand rubbing along Sherlock’s clothed arousal made him shudder and whimper quietly.

An equally hushed moan escaped Greg. “This feels good?” he asked.

Sherlock held onto Greg’s shoulder. 

He felt Greg’s responding smile deep in his marrow. “Sherlock, I want to tell you something.” With his free hand, Greg pulled Sherlock closer to him to whisper to him, while his other hand continued. “I know I was the first person to ever make love to you in that way. That’s important to me. Don’t be doubting yourself at all about not being good enough, or anything like that. You were gorgeous. I couldn’t get enough of you.”

Sherlock whimpered. The praise felt as good as the unbearably hot touches. “Please…”

“What is it?”

“Tell me more, please.” It terrified Sherlock, how all the fight that was left in him was sapped out of his limbs by Greg’s close company and reassuring words. He wouldn’t have thought that he doubted Greg’s liking for him after all that had been said and done between them, and yet what he wanted most of all right now was to hear how he had made a positive difference in his brother’s beloved’s life.

Greg tucked Sherlock’s head into the crook of his shoulder. “Sh.”

Sherlock moaned quietly.

“You’ve been so good, to me, to Mycroft, to John,” Greg said. “What the two of you have made together, letting Mycroft and I be there with you two every step of the way. I hope it makes you as happy as it makes me. I never would have guessed that I could be friends with John again. Somehow, you made that possible.” Greg pulled Sherlock closer to him, encouraging Sherlock to lose himself against Greg’s body, which was steadily losing control of itself as well. “You made even more than that possible. You make John smile, like I never could by myself. When I see him enjoying himself so much, when you’re talking to him, or with him… I wish I could make that last forever, you two, with me and Mycroft there to watch over you…” Greg sighed dreamily. “Mycroft, and I, we would keep you two safe from everything, so you and John could do whatever you wanted with each other…”

“Greg!” Sherlock was so filled with desire and other charged feelings less readily identifiable that he was halfway to screaming. But that didn’t matter. He needed Greg, right now. He had to let Greg do whatever he wanted to him. “Greg, please!”

Greg, despite being a little embarrassed, was in every way agreeable. “Right-o!” He swiftly pulled Sherlock up and took him under his arm to somewhere where he would tell Sherlock more about how he and Mycroft would look after Sherlock and John.

\--

Mycroft enjoyed looking at John, even though he could only see the back of John’s head from his current vantage point at the threshold of what might be the most unassuming place in the house. 

John had left the door open, but hadn’t yet noticed that Mycroft was nearby. It was nice that John felt comfortable enough to do that. 

The characteristic laziness that Mycroft was feeling presently was not reflected in any of his family, including John. Unlike his bedmates, Mycroft was often content to sit about and spend the day pondering life. He might even let his mind go blank once in a while. John, like Sherlock and Greg, was too energetic for that kind of idle contentment. 

Yet John’s energy was a different one from theirs. It had drawn him into his room, to write feverishly in quiet solitude. That’s how it often was when Sherlock wasn’t around. It would grow on its own, and then explode in action as soon as Sherlock carried John off to the docks or to town. In many ways, Sherlock was the leader to John’s soldier, in spite of Sherlock’s general aversion to leading. John couldn’t think of doing anything dangerous or adventurous without inspiration from Mycroft’s younger brother. 

Occasions like these gave Mycroft the perfect opportunities to spend quality time with John.

Smoothly, Mycroft came upon John and kissed him on the cheek, as his palms came upon John’s shoulders. “Good afternoon, John. You don’t mind that I let myself in?”

John turned his head and showed an instantaneous smile. “Oh, Mycroft, hello. Please, come in! I’m sorry, I must not have heard you.”

“You were too happily engrossed in your writing, I should hope.” Mycroft had the courtesy not to peek at the manuscript on John’s desk. It wouldn’t have been worth it, anyway. He was looking forward too much to hearing John read it aloud. Mycroft had long ago lost all interest in fiction, until John had taken to sharing his stories with them. “I regret the interruption, yet I was rather wanting in good company.”

John’s face brightened with joy. “Oh, of course! Stay, sit, please!” With an awkward haste, John pushed his writing away, and pointed to the edge of his former bed. This room was John’s to use for whatever purpose he liked, yet he only used it when in the mood for writing.

Mycroft liked to see this kind of outspokenness in John. He did as suggested, with barely a noise against the bed. Somehow, he wished to communicate to John that he was content to merely sit near John, if John was too taken by his work to engage in conversation. “Are you occupied at the moment?”

“Oh, no!” John had less calmness than Mycroft, and it showed in the jerkiness of his movements. “Not at all! I need a break from this, anyway.” He eagerly pulled his chair up to the bed, to sit across from Mycroft, ready to hear whatever it was Mycroft had to say.

The swiftness of John’s actions made Mycroft smile. However, he did not appreciate the distance that remained between them. Mycroft preferred that there should be nothing to separate them.

“How are things?” John began, when Mycroft failed to take the initiative quickly enough. 

“Quite fine,” Mycroft answered. “And how are you this lovely day?”

“I’m good. Was there something in particular you wanted to talk to me about?”

No, there was not. “One might suppose that we have many things to talk about.” 

John’s hands folded into themselves. “Well, I don’t regret any of it.”

Mycroft let those unexpected words absorb him.

“What we did yesterday, I mean.” A beautiful blush began to overtake John’s determined features. “In the living room, and the bedroom. Um, when you… when Greg…” He bit his lip. “All the stuff we did. You were both brilliant. It was brilliant. I don’t really how to say it, except that it was… brilliant.”

How charming my new little brother is, Mycroft heard himself think in his own head.

“You did like it, right?” John grabbed the seat of his chair. “I, um, I want you to know, that I liked it, and, I wanted you to like it. I wanted it to be good for you. I hope,” he sighed tensely to himself, “that I’m going about this all right…”

“Of course you are.” Mycroft tapped the sheets beside him. “Now, would you please quit that chair, and take a seat next to me?”

John didn’t comprehend the meaning of the request at first. It seemed to please him, but also to surprise him on account of its boldness.

That was interesting, and somewhat amusing. They had already done so much in addition to sitting together. Mycroft understood, though. John was uncertain of himself, always feeling for the boundaries of proper behaviour. The whole concept of interacting freely with his loved ones, beyond the safe rules of good manners, was still too new for John for him to embrace it completely.

But he was learning. It was becoming more common for him to be free around them. Each occasion was its own splendid victory.

“Yeah, um, okay.” Wearing sheepishness about himself like a cloak, John returned his chair to his desk. He then took his place on the bed, some inches apart from Mycroft. His posture was more rigid than Mycroft would have liked, but not distinctly so.

Mycroft wondered to what limit John might be relaxed with him. Slowly, he reached toward John, and touched his cheek, and stroked where his hair met his ear. 

Again, the boldness of such familiarity captured John’s attention. He hardly breathed.

“I did enjoy you, last night,” Mycroft murmured. 

The power that he wielded over John was greater than even Mycroft himself could fully imagine. He’d hardly said anything, and already John was struck with awe.

That was exceedingly adorable. Feeling encouraged, Mycroft pressed his lips to John’s ear, showing his affection, lingering far too long there for the gesture to be considered platonic.

It made John swallow pointedly.

Curious, Mycroft retracted. “Is this not to your satisfaction?”

“No, no, um, I’m just… a little… I don’t know.” John shook his head at himself.

Mycroft didn’t much want to see that. Just a moment ago, John had been full of enthusiasm. Well, Mycroft would clear away whatever awful doubts remained in John’s sweet heart. “I see…” He held John’s face with both hands. “Is it that you might want a different sort of kiss?”

John was the absolute picture of stupefied surprise. He glanced about the room. “But, Sherlock’s not here? What do you mean?”

“Yes, and neither is Greg,” Mycroft noted aloofly.

The fascinating shudder that passed through John reached Mycroft’s fingers. “But… if they’re not around, why would we, that is, we’re not supposed to…?” The nervous argument fell through, and died away into nothing. 

Patiently, chastely, Mycroft slowly leaned in, and kissed John on the mouth. 

At first, John’s eyes were starkly open. Then, in a matter of seconds, they fluttered closed.

That was exactly the reaction that Mycroft wanted to see. He made very certain to see it. The sight of John’s surrender to it thrilled Mycroft to the tips of his ears. He kissed John deeply, tenderly, basking in the sheer indulgence of the action. There was no haste in it. Mycroft was only interested in taking his time to show John how much he loved him.

Tentatively, searchingly, John responded to him.

Surprise and delight bloomed inside of Mycroft. Begone, demons of proper behaviour. With all the patience that he could master, he let John accustom himself to this, and to dictate their pace. 

He was aware of John’s hands settling onto his hips, lightly at first, and then more heavily, always testing their actions first before committing themselves. John kissed Mycroft, until he could not anymore, and had to pull away to breathe. He was flushed with colour. There were lights in his eyes that spoke of desires that Mycroft could not quite discern. 

“Mycroft,” John whispered. “Are you going to kiss Sherlock like this?”

Intrigued, Mycroft paused.

John bowed his head. “Sorry. I was just wondering, but, I wanted to tell you, whether you do or not, I’m, um, I’m all for it!”

Mycroft raised en eyebrow at such enthusiasm. He supposed that he regularly kissed Sherlock in a fashion that vaguely resembled this—expressions of fondness alone, with none of the more demanding fury of passion with which Greg easily consumed him. Such brotherly kisses had always been more physically chaste than this, however. “I confess, I’ve not thought much on the matter,” he said. “What do you think? Would you likewise share intimacy with Greg in this manner?”

John gasped. “Me?”

“Certainly, you. Of course, Greg is an excellent kisser. He is warm, and loving, and quite direct. A man who knows what he wants, I should be glad to confess.”

“Oh, um...”

A mischievous thought presented itself to Mycroft. “Tell me, how is Sherlock? How does he kiss?”

“Um...” John was steaming hot with colourful feelings, Mycroft was delighted to see. John retracted his hands so that he could twiddle his thumbs. “He’s, um… gentle,” he confessed, at length. “Oh, but, only sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Mycroft smirked. “I see. Sherlock is full of surprises. Greg can be like that as well. Sometimes, he is careful, and infinitely sweet.” Ever so softly, Mycroft took John’s hands back, and replaced them on his own body, admiring the shine in John’s eyes as he did so. “At other times, he is… shall we say, ravenous. Ah, but you know that ravenousness for yourself, now,” Mycroft said slyly. “Is that not so?”

There was nothing subtle about that reference to Greg’s love for John. Fortunately, it didn’t bother John. “Yeah, I, um, suppose so…” John cleared his throat. “I guess Greg’s, um…” John made a valiant effort to casually smile through his blushing. “Greg’s… full of surprises, too!”

Mycroft laughed. That was putting it lightly. 

“I, uh…” John reached for Mycroft’s hand. “I think that I would kiss Greg like this. If he wants that.”

“Indeed?” Mycroft admired the confidence of that assertion. “I confess, though it had not occurred to me before, I would also kiss Sherlock like this, without much hesitation.” 

John looked thoughtful. “Um, Mycroft?” he asked. 

“Yes?”

“You’re going to… make love… to Sherlock. Aren’t you?”

Hearing those soft words from John shouldn’t have had such an effect on Mycroft, and yet they did. It felt like a decision Mycroft had made a long time ago, the decision to treat Sherlock as anything but off limits. It wasn’t that Mycroft was ashamed of the decision, though. “That’s right.”

John hesitated. “Has he done that kind of thing before?”

Mycroft’s brow rose. “No.” A strange, onerous weight fell upon Mycroft’s heart at his own reply, though he’d known this. John was right to bring this to his attention. “It will be his first time.”

“C-Can you teach me how to do it?” John blurted before he could stop himself. 

At that, Mycroft was speechless.

“Sherlock seemed to like it so much, what you did for him last night. I want to be able to do that for him, too!”

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. Nothing seemed nearly appropriate enough. Clearly, John had no idea how often Mycroft had desired to see his dear Sherlock moan in ecstasy under John. So many times, he and Greg had toyed with the idea of instructing their younger counterparts. 

But John should know all that by now. Had they never so much as hinted at it in John’s presence? 

Mycroft knew that Greg had mentioned it to Sherlock, without great success. But what about John? They never asked him?

They must have underestimated him. 

Before John had come, Sherlock had been lonely. Neither Mycroft nor Greg had been sufficient company for him. Sherlock had too much energy for either of them. He was extreme, in ways that had worried Mycroft for many years. Those worries ended when John came. John proclaimed himself a retiring fellow, but Mycroft and Greg had long ago recognised in him a spirit as young and vivacious as Sherlock’s. When Sherlock and John were together, they were boundless. Their young imaginations fed one another’s, a fact which Mycroft deduced from the constant changes in John’s style of writing and Sherlock’s choice of adventures. 

Perhaps that was it. Mycroft was not disposed to exertion, and Greg was easily satisfied, but Sherlock and John shared an endless childlike love of discovery. They were especially beautiful when they explored each other. They were never quite satisfied, it seemed, but always full of daring affection, and always wanting even more.

“Yes,” Mycroft murmured cautiously. “Greg and I can show you how it is done, sometime.”

“Really?” John’s spirit was blazing. His whole face was blazing as well. “I would appreciate that so much!”

Beneath the very warm interest that was spurred in Mycroft’s breast by John’s request, some awful feeling clawed at him from inside. He should have made this offer to John sooner. “No.”

John faltered. “No?”

“Not sometime,” Mycroft said. “Today. Tonight.” He brought his lips close to John’s ear, and whispered sweetly. “How about, when Sherlock and I are together? You can follow along… closely. If it pleases you. If it isn’t… too soon?”

The pretty shudder that came from John was marvellous. It was exactly what made Mycroft’s blood simmer with desire. “Oh, but, I don’t mean to intrude!” John blushed madly. “I know how important tonight will be for you, and, if you, um, would rather have all your concentration on Sherlock!”

“Oh, My dear John,” Mycroft laughed darkly. John had no idea how important he was.

Startled, John stared at him.

“You are never an intrusion.” A possessive rush went through Mycroft, but he managed not to throw himself on top of John. At the moment, he didn’t trust himself to be so free with John while the two of them were alone. Instead, he steadied himself with a deep breath, and tried to stay calm. “Ah, let me explain. You see, there is something that Sherlock seems to have difficulty coming to understand,” he said. “He remains convinced that the zenith of his usefulness to me will be his serving me physically, and that anything else is merely him being selfish or me sacrificing myself to be a good brother. However, he is mistaken.”

Curiosity seemed to sparkle inside John.

For John’s benefit, Mycroft continued. “The truth is, what I would wish most of all, is to see him in your arms, John.” Mycroft’s eyes darkened as he thought about it. “He needs you, constantly. It is not merely that he is bored without you. He deeply adores you. He’s free with you, like he never was when he was with me alone. If I could only prepare him for you in some way, make it easier for the two of you, to teach you how it’s done… Would that be so bad?” Mycroft dreamily played a couple of his fingers along John’s shoulder. “It’s not so terribly hard to imagine that Greg would be there, too, holding him for you…”

John’s voice was breathless. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft was aware, abruptly, that he might have spoken rather too candidly. He’d only meant to comfort John with his honesty. He put on a congenial smile, to lighten the air a little. “You see, you and he would make something beautiful together, as partners, as equals, in a sense. As for him and me, well. I expect that he will give himself entirely over to me, as a novice would to someone more experienced. He hasn’t the confidence for anything more than that. He would not have the confidence to make this request at all, but for your presence, John. And, to be frank...” He sighed. “My confidence needs your presence, as well. I could not do this without you. So, please, don’t consider yourself an intruder.”

Treating this all in a serious manner, John paused to fully ponder what Mycroft had said. Then, he nodded gratefully to Mycroft. He further showed his gratitude by hugging him. “Thank you, thank you so much.” 

Satisfied, Mycroft quietly revelled in the warmth that John offered him. 

Though John was evidently relieved and happy, Mycroft was distantly aware that there was something off in John’s demeanour afterwards. Maybe John was planning something. Mycroft wouldn’t be too surprised if that was the case, though; after all, Mycroft was beginning to understand that John was a braver soul than he appeared to be.

\--

Sherlock didn't always like playing songs on the violin when other people were around. He preferred to make scratching noises to shoo away unwelcome spectators, and then to play random notes in peace. There were three exceptions to this general principle, however. 

Of those three, while all were equal in Sherlock’s eyes, his brother was the first. While Mycroft had no interest in generating music himself, he did seem to have an interest in listening to it. Moreover, he could listen to a single song virtually forever without exasperation. Then again, Sherlock expected that he could be marking the walls with chalk and Mycroft would still be sitting near him.

He was doing so now, drinking his tea and supervising his younger sibling with hardly a care for the passage of time.

The attention wasn't so bad. It helped Sherlock to relax, somewhat. There was something spectacularly consistent in Mycroft's manner, which balanced out Sherlock's ever-changing anxieties and dispositions. 

Ironically, that was true even when Mycroft was himself the source of the most salient of said anxieties. 

While Sherlock was as impatient as ever to find out what would happen tonight between the two of them, Mycroft still wasn’t in any hurry to take Sherlock to bed, or even to discuss it. It would all be very annoying to Sherlock, if such patience weren’t so hilariously typical of his older brother. That kind of consistency was rare in the world.

Not to mention, Sherlock was fairly sure that Mycroft could deduce most of what Sherlock and Greg had done earlier that day, yet Mycroft hadn’t mentioned it. Nor did Mycroft say anything of the moment of intimacy he’d obviously shared with John, judging from the smells that each of them was currently carrying. 

If Mycroft didn’t say something soon—approval, flirtation, explanation, anything—Sherlock was sure he would soon combust from sheer nervous energy. 

Greg’s abrupt entrance into the living room was announced by loud footsteps and a boisterous battle cry. “The cavalry has arrived!” 

Sherlock spun to see them, lowering his violin bow.

Mycroft looked over, and set down his tea.

Before them came Greg and John, the latter of who was being carried rather unnecessarily in Greg’s arms. Greg was smiling widely, and John was laughing shyly at the situation. Both of them were still dripping with some of the water that they had used to clean themselves off after presumably playing in the dirt. 

“John’s quite the fighter!” Greg boasted. “He’s quite the wrestler. I could barely keep myself on my feet. Well, John, here they are,” Greg said to John. “What was it that you wanted to show them?”

“Just, this!” Unexpected energy surged through John. He reached up to Greg, took hold of Greg’s puzzled face, and gave him a full kiss on the lips.

Sherlock almost dropped his violin. 

Mycroft was calmly intrigued.

Greg looked at John with naked amazement. His fingers curled around John’s shoulders. “John?” he asked, in wonder, when John pulled himself away too quickly for Sherlock’s liking. Sherlock would have begged for more from them, if he could.

“That was for you, Greg,” John said. “Do you like it?”

The answer to that question was obvious. Sherlock was captivated by the sunny display of lovesick emotion that began to fill Greg’s beautiful features.

Awkwardly, John bowed his head. “Would you like more—?”

Greg kissed John passionately in return. Whereas John’s kiss had leaned toward the polite, Greg’s was intimate and penetrating. He held John devotedly, pulling him closer, giving John all his affection for John to enjoy as he pleased. Greg kissed like he had been waiting for this moment all his life. 

John must have enjoyed the attention, because he whimpered quietly and swayed into Greg’s hold. 

A heavy, warm feeling pooled deep in Sherlock’s body. It occurred to him that he should possibly avert his eyes, but instead he absolutely had to stare at them and see how they made each other glow. The way they treated each other should have nothing to do with Sherlock, and yet it had everything to do with the need-filled fire that was burning him.

“John,” Greg murmured, breathing deeply. “Anything you want, just say the word. I’d do anything for you.” He kissed John again, doing everything he could to make John a beloved extension of himself. 

Sherlock finally put his violin down, without taking his eyes off of John and Greg. The two of them were endlessly fascinating to observe. Sherlock couldn’t stop observing them. Greg’s pride in John showed too clearly in the way he touched John’s cheek. John, his own precious John, seemed content to simply be Greg’s. 

Sherlock’s trust in Greg was already impermeable, though it was made even more so by the sight of how Greg had made John happy in this way. If John was to spend the rest of eternity in Greg’s arms, Sherlock could think of no place for John more secure, or more warm.

It was, perhaps, unlike John, to be this forward with Greg. John had initiated this just now, hadn’t he? This was a new development. It was a great change. This sort of forthrightness was what they had all been working toward with John. Sherlock was heartily relieved to see John finding his confidence with them.

Mycroft waved them over. “Why don’t you two continue that activity closer to us?” He patted his couch with a lazy speed and a lazier smile.

What had Mycroft thought of what had just occurred in front of them? Sherlock glanced at his brother. Far from being alarmed, Mycroft was calmly delighted. He was smiling wide at Greg’s and John’s happiness, while his eyes were dark with what could only be a lust for an encore.

“The sofa’s not big enough for the four of us, though, and that’s not fair to Sherlock, is it?” Greg replied with a laugh. 

Sherlock could have sputtered like a baby. However, John spoke first.

“Bedroom, then?” John suggested suddenly, brightly.

There was a small silence in the room. Evidently, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who had to struggle to believe that John had said something so suggestive. 

Sherlock couldn’t see the reason for John’s brave behaviour. John never spoke and acted so brazenly as he was speaking now, except for those times when Sherlock managed by some miracle to distract John from his shyness with moments of excitement or danger. Something wonderful must have happened to John today.

No, that wasn’t the truth of it. The change had been gradual. Every day, John was increasingly becoming more comfortable in their house. Sherlock should have known better that John had always been brave, deep down. John was amazing like that.

A ruthlessly delighted smirk had spread across Greg’s face. “That… sounds like a great idea to me! John, you’re brilliant!”

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, waiting impatiently to hear his response first before committing to his own answer. He was looking for some signal from his brother, anything to indicate what might happen next.

“Will this great idea require me to stand?” Mycroft said. 

“Hm, I don’t see why it should.” A few powerful strides brought Greg to Mycroft. Quite cheerfully, Greg set John down so that he could pick Mycroft up, to rest against his chest. “See? No standing necessary.”

“Ah, how clever.” Mycroft’s long body curled against Greg, and his arms swung closely around his neck. Greg’s hold about him tightened, and he stole a quick nuzzle from his willing captive. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes the tiniest bit. If Sherlock didn’t love them so much, he might groan at how ostentatiously married the two of them were.

“Sherlock?” John asked, simply. He extended his hand to Sherlock. “You, too?”

Sherlock’s breath stopped short. John was asking him to come with them. His John, inviting him. That wasn’t how things normally went. He couldn’t explain why John’s bold invitation caused a strange happiness to well in his chest. 

John smiled nervously. “Come on, then,” he said with a contagious eagerness. “Hey. Let’s beat them to the bedroom! Do you want to?”

At the mere suggestion of an action so childish and pointless, a rush of adrenaline pumped through Sherlock. A race to the finish? It was a wonderful idea. “Yes!” He grabbed John. “Yes, let’s!” He pulled John with him. With John, he ran across the room, past two very curious onlookers, and darted down the hall.

There was absolutely no need for them to beat Mycroft and Greg to the bedroom. There was nothing to be gained by it, nor any danger to be avoided. It was merely the act of running with John at his side that had Sherlock’s pulse pounding. The two of them, feeling ridiculous and acting ridiculous together, making fools of themselves with their older brothers. This was all Sherlock wanted.

As soon as they made it into the master quarters, John fell back onto the bed, laughing off his energy and palming his face. “Ah, I kissed Greg! I did it! I finally did it! Did you see?”

Sherlock felt a pride that was inexplicable, for what John had accomplished, all on his own. “Yes,” he whispered in an ethereal voice. “You did it.”

John sat up, and Sherlock knew he could discern the same curiosity in John’s eyes that was surely in his own. In his own way, John seemed to like to deduce Sherlock as much as Sherlock liked to study John. Sherlock wondered what it was that John saw in him.

Sherlock collapsed onto his knees, in front of John, trying to think of what to say. 

“Sherlock,” John said. “Before Greg and Mycroft get here. I… I have an idea.” Two able but small hands curled together tightly. “It’s… I don’t know if it’s too much, but I think we can do it, you and I.”

“Do what?” Sherlock encouraged, when John took too long to work up his courage. 

“The two of us. Us, together!” Suddenly, John pumped the air with excitement. “We can run things this time! We can turn the tables on Mycroft and Greg!”

Sherlock’s brow knitted in instant disbelief. More than brave, John was out of his mind.

“Really! They were… so amazing, last night, the way they treated us. They didn’t hold back anything. If they could do it, then it can’t be so hard, can it? Not holding back, for Greg and Mycroft? We can give as good as we can get, can’t we? I… I think we can.” John held onto Sherlock’s shoulders. “We’ll do it together! Side by side, every step of the way, like they did!”

Though Sherlock’s body leaned into John’s touch, his eyes were uncertain. If John was supposing that the two of them could dominate tonight’s activities, he was overestimating Sherlock’s abilities. Sherlock had never led anything, when it came to Greg and Mycroft. He barely led any activities between himself and John. Such intimate assertiveness did not come naturally to him. To assume so much responsibility in such an important but unfamiliar arena was a frightening prospect. “John.”

“It’s, um, it’s okay, I think, that we’re not experts at things like this, if that’s what you’re worried about.” John was scintillating with a happy energy. “Maybe that’s not a problem, because, we can be experts at not being experts! We’ll just have to be too adorable for them to handle! I think they’d like it, Sherlock, if we teamed up on them…” John offered a challenging smile, as if this were a game like any other. “And… they’ll never see it coming, right?”

A smirk emerged on Sherlock’s face. Of course, John knew and shared Sherlock’s love for the dangerous. 

John’s expression took on a dreamy quality. “I, um, the reason I’m saying this… well. You know, while you and Greg were gone today, Mycroft told me that what he most wanted to see was the two of us… being reckless.” He simpered. “I think they both would like that. And, I’d like to try it.”

“John.” All of Sherlock’s resistance and self-doubt, for the moment, had melted into fondness. “How did you get to be so strong?” 

Shyness came back over John for a moment. He bowed his head. “You are all so strong.” He giggled awkwardly. “I guess I feel like I need to keep up?”

Sherlock didn’t believe that. After all, to have such boldness as this in matters so very important—that is, their shared relationships with Greg and Mycroft—John wasn’t just keeping up. He must have surpassed Sherlock by now. No, rather, John had always had the powerful courage of a warrior hidden under his modest writer’s veneer.

Again, John challenged him. “I won’t hold back,” he whispered, “if you don’t.”

“Then, I won’t.” Sherlock gazed at his fighter with thrilled interest and wonder. “The game is on.”

“Ally-oop!” Without warning, Greg was standing beside Sherlock. 

A second later, Mycroft was dropped to sit beside John. Greg knelt to the floor, and put a friendly arm around Sherlock. 

Sherlock spun his head to examine Greg. Was it through Greg’s power that John had come at last to be self-confident in this house, and in this world? That would make sense. Greg was master of the household, and John’s oldest friend besides. Sherlock didn’t mind admitting to himself that he could never bring about such calm determination in John like Greg could. He only felt pride in Greg for it.

Mycroft tapped at his own chin wryly. “Now, what are you two doing down there on the floor?”

Greg shrugged with a laugh. “Who knows? But while we’re down here, I think Sherlock and I have a bit of a confession to make to the two of you, before we go any further, just to be fair. You see, Sherlock and I, we’ve… already been up to some nonsense today.” He held Sherlock’s hand like a proud co-conspirator, and looked at him with the guilt of one, too. “Though, it was really my fault mostly, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock blushed. “Greg…”

Surely this all came as no surprise to Mycroft. Indeed, he was not surprised. He only crossed his arms in mock reprobation. “Dear me,” he purred, “what debauchery have you been up to with my dear little brother?”

Sherlock’s blush intensified tenfold. This wasn’t going how the game was supposed to be going at all. Mycroft and Greg were too much for him, and from the very start, too. They were always too much for him to handle. But tonight, somehow, it had to be him and John who led. He had to get control of the situation, fast. 

Greg pretended to be embarrassed by Mycroft’s accusation. “Well, it’s like this. While we were drinking at the pub, we got a bit eager, thinking of the two of you. We were having such a good time, and Sherlock was being such a sweetheart.” Greg paused to fondly remember. “I might have… rubbed a good quick one out, for the both of us.”

That was not helping. Sherlock grimaced. 

John giggled cutely, covering his mouth with one hand as he did so. 

For a moment, every fibre of Sherlock’s being centred on John’s reaction. Did John approve of what they’d done? Disapprove? Sherlock couldn’t tell. At first, he could only tell that the story was amusing to John.

It was a relief, at least, when John asked bashfully, “You mean, in the pub?”

Mycroft, too, expressed some cross between pleased and amused. “In public?”

Greg laughed as well. “Uh, not for the majority of it! Just… some of it.”

“But you and John did something today, too, Mycroft!” Sherlock heard himself exclaim, attempting to draw this overload of attention away from himself. “You did something like that to him, didn’t you?” 

Mycroft raised a brow at this interruption.

It was like running into a brick wall. To be assertive was proving to be very difficult, even more than Sherlock had anticipated. How did John make it look so easy? Feeling silly, Sherlock bowed his head. “I perceived that you and John… did something together earlier, too… while Greg and I…?”

“Yes, that is so,” Mycroft answered, sparing Sherlock and allaying his insistent curiosity at last. “We kissed.”

Kissed? That presented a very fascinating image. Mycroft would treat John so well. Sherlock wondered if he could ask them to kiss again, so that he could see. Had it been passionate, or gentle? John’s reaction was too subdued for Sherlock to discern one way or the other. 

John wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation, it seemed, but to Sherlock himself. In a way, that was comforting to Sherlock, to know that John wanted Sherlock’s approval, too.

“Really? I’m sorry I missed that,” Greg said, with feeling.

“Hm, but this presents something of an asymmetry,” Mycroft hummed. “I fear there will be a disparity of stamina tonight, since you and Sherlock have already…”

“Don’t… say it,” Sherlock grumbled quietly, making Mycroft smile innocently.

Greg grinned. “That shouldn’t be a problem, honey. Sherlock and I have energy to spare, lots of it. That was the whole point of the thing at the pub! Unless, you want I should make things a bit more fair, first?” He patted Mycroft’s knees suggestively.

Mycroft playfully swatted Greg’s hands away. “Now, now,” Mycroft chided. “I’m saving myself for something important.”

Greg laughed good-naturedly.

Sherlock’s hands balled into fists in his lap. He pouted furiously at the floor. He was losing the game, and gloriously, too. Greg and Mycroft were too free with how much they loved Sherlock and John. They were too good for him. 

“Um, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s pout vanished. All of his attention flew straight to John. John would have the answer. John knew how to win. 

John’s hands curled anxiously. “Did you want to see me and Mycroft kiss, maybe?” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. John had seen through that petty desire? The nauseous feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff overcame him. He did not know at which side of him the cliff lay. He wanted so badly to own the truth of the depth of his fondness for seeing Mycroft and John together, but it was impossible to know what unalterable consequences such a decision would yield. “Yes,” he breathed.

John was awkward about it, yet flattered nonetheless. “Well, I know then!” he declared. “Let’s trade!” 

“Trade?” 

“You kiss Greg, and me, I’ll kiss Mycroft!” John exclaimed. “We lead, the two of us! Okay?”

Sherlock almost smiled at the unattainable boldness of the proposition. Didn’t John know by now? Sherlock couldn’t initiate anything that. He could never kiss Greg, not unless Greg kissed him first. Sherlock hadn’t the feel for such things. It would be nice if he could, but—

Mycroft’s head tilted back. He said nothing. Light creases in his brow betrayed only fondness and amusement at John’s suggestion.

Greg chuckled, understanding and appreciating the implication but not quite treating it seriously.

Yet the conviction in John’s expression never wavered.

Somehow, this scene stung painfully. Sherlock saw it clearly, then. 

While neither Sherlock, nor Mycroft, nor Greg expected much initiative from Sherlock, John expected miracles of him. John had every faith in him to come through.

Always, Sherlock had chosen to be the submissive one. Receiving kisses, without giving them. Receiving pleasure, while giving none. Letting Mycroft and Greg dictate everything that happened. But that made sense. Sherlock was no good at this sort of thing, and the exact sort of thing that existed between the four of them was a particularly tricky business. It was easier to let the others run the show; Sherlock couldn’t ruin anything that way. It didn’t help that Sherlock had terribly little experience with love. He’d never even taken an interest in dating when he’d entered manhood. When Mycroft and Greg had awakened what were surely prurient desires in him for the very first time, things were confusing and unsettled enough that Sherlock had gladly kept to the easy role of the third wheel. Well, a little more than a third wheel. That strategy had worked reasonably well, too.

However, John was here with them now. And John expected more of him. John truly believed that Sherlock had it in him to not hold back, to express his feelings directly. John believed that Sherlock could lead, and more importantly, he believed Mycroft and Greg would like it, no matter how grievously Sherlock screwed it up. 

Sherlock grinned ferociously. “Trade!” 

Greg jumped in his own skin at the abruptness of the change in Sherlock, and glanced at him. “What—?”

Sherlock’s hand cupped around the back Greg’s neck. Sherlock turned Greg to himself, and recklessly brought their lips to almost together, inches apart, but not touching. He tried to go just a little further, kiss Greg, do it on his own. But he was too nervous, too unfamiliar. Greg might not like this? Instead, Sherlock initiated with a demand. “Kiss me, Greg! I want a kiss from you!”

Greg was too amazed to respond. He didn’t close the distance.

That wasn’t good. Sherlock wanted John to see what a real kiss from Greg and Sherlock looked like. “Come on! Kiss me, please?”

Greg blinked at him. Slowly, he began to smirk. “Why don’t… you come on, Sherlock?” he teased. 

Panic hit Sherlock like a blow to the heart.

“I’m all for it, you know. Say, this is because… you want John to see something good between us, right?” It was incredible how Greg managed to be so supportive, even now. “Then, let’s kiss.” 

That was mostly the truth, but how could Greg possibly expect Sherlock to do this on his own? How did Sherlock ever think he could do this on his own? He had never had the technique for it. His own body was too awkward for it. It would repel Greg, or annoy him. John seemed to like when Sherlock kissed him, but he still couldn’t help but be sure that any attempt he made with Greg would only be a disaster. It was too risky. Sherlock couldn’t move.

The generosity of Greg’s smile made Sherlock want to kick himself. “It’s all right. I don’t mind. It’s nothing we haven’t done before, though, right?” Greg’s fingers crept under Sherlock’s hair, luring him in, making Sherlock want to do nothing but curl against Greg and let the man do as he pleased.

No. Sherlock couldn’t let them down like this.

“Wait,” he said. He had to resist the temptation of losing himself to wave after wave of feelings of being unconditionally adored. He had to try what he could.

“Yeah?”

John had faith in him. Sherlock remembered this fact, as he very tentatively asserted himself by putting a hand on Greg’s face. His fingers connected to a cheek, and a nose, and an ear. “Is this… okay?” 

That small gesture was all it took. Greg froze.

“I’m… not very experienced.” Sherlock was shaking. He couldn’t keep hold of himself. Terror made his throat tremble. “Can you show me,” he pushed forward with great effort, “how to lead a kiss? I want to lead, but, I need your help.” This was assertive and submissive at the same time, he knew, a far cry from what he should be capable of, but it was all he could manage.

He couldn’t begin to imagine why, but Greg was blushing. “Uh, sure, it’s easy. It’s not so different from receiving a kiss, really…”

Doing his best to ignore his own frightened body, Sherlock leaned forward. “I’m still not confident that I can do it. Can you lead me through it, please?”

Greg’s eyes widened. “Uh, sure...” He took a deep breath, held Sherlock’s chin, and guided him closer. “Like… this, you know.” 

“And?” Sherlock asked. “Now what?”

Greg almost burst into a nervous laugh. “Eh? Just… keep going! You know. Make a landing.”

“Lead me… through it. Please.”

“Eh?” Greg hesitated. “The whole thing? You’ve gotta be...” He sighed. “Well, all right?” Cautiously, he pulled Sherlock’s face to his own. He pressed Sherlock’s lips against his, moving them with his own. Despite whatever reluctance Greg may have felt, he dutifully did as Sherlock asked. He guided Sherlock’s face, moving him, softly teaching him. 

Sherlock let his eyes close. He obeyed the pace that Greg had set for him, at first. He studied every detail of it and, gradually enough so as to not panic, used what he learned to take the kiss for his own. He caressed Greg’s face, testing it, thinking about it, wondering if Greg knew how beautiful and warm he was. 

Greg followed Sherlock, though he never became completely pliant. Sherlock felt his own display of affection endlessly matched. Greg could never let him go. In a way, that made Sherlock stupendously happy. This was his gift to Greg, then, an expression of his appreciation of Greg’s kindness to him.

When Greg took his lips away, he did not take his body away, but instead kept Sherlock in his arms, close enough for Sherlock to smell Greg all around himself and to breathe him in. Sherlock’s heart ached to be treated so familiarly by Greg. Greg was still amazed, and at a loss for words. So was Sherlock. 

A subdued, strangled noise came from the direction of Mycroft.

Sherlock felt his treacherous nerves grow hot. His older brother did always appreciate when Greg initiated intimacy with Sherlock. Maybe Mycroft didn’t mind the reverse.

John had been right, so far. Neither of them had been bothered by Sherlock’s lack of ability. 

“Um, Mycroft,” John said. 

Sherlock watched as Mycroft looked at John, seemingly with enough focus to catch every minute detail of John’s movements.

John took hold of Mycroft’s hand. “Can I kiss you, this time?”

Mycroft, who still hadn’t recovered from watching Sherlock kiss Greg, did his best to answer John. “Of… Of course.” 

John nodded happily. But abruptly, John sent a measured glance at Sherlock, searching him. Even in the midst of this, John was hesitant, trying to figure something out.

Sherlock wasn’t sure about that. If he could be of any significant use to John, then John need only ask. Was there something he could give John that might help?

Mycroft noticed as well. “John, we needn’t—?” 

With a bolt of passion, John gave Mycroft his own earnest kiss, moulding the two of them together as though they were made to fit.

In that moment, Mycroft was too amazed to react. His features were marked with an overjoyed shock. Once he knew what was happening, he responded and followed John’s lead. John tipped Mycroft back, and Mycroft slid a hand or two up John’s back, helping to guide him as he pressed forward. Something deep and demanding burned through Sherlock at the sight of their eager embrace. 

A new side to John’s love was making itself known, and Mycroft seemed to like it, too. Their kiss wasn’t a refined one, but that didn’t matter to Mycroft. It didn’t matter to Greg, either, or to Sherlock. Who cared about John’s skill or technique, when he could make Mycroft lose himself like this?

As it catalogued every curious detail of their kiss, in the same way it had seized upon the feel of Greg’s face, Sherlock’s mind was whirring with new, daring thoughts. He could turn his inexperience from a liability into an asset.

He and John were more powerful than he’d ever realised. At that moment, Sherlock felt positively evil. He’d forgotten how devious he could be.

“Thank you,” John said cheerfully, after they had parted. “Thank you, so much. I really liked that.”

Mycroft stared at him, intrigued and infatuated, still trying to replenish the air that had escaped him. 

“Oh my god.” Greg’s voice came out hoarse.

“Quite.” Mycroft was equally out of breath. 

Sherlock wasn’t going to delay, not while John was waiting on him. He tugged at Greg’s arm. “Hey, Greg, can we get on the bed now?”

Greg swallowed. “Uh, sure. Sure, yeah!” Greg stood up, and offered his hand down to Sherlock, to help him up.

But Sherlock had a game to win, and now he knew how he could win it. With all his clever sincerity, he reached into his own insecure heart and honestly spoke the frightened feeling he found there. “Actually, can you pick me up? I don’t really know where I’m supposed to sit. Besides, I like when you hold me and move me around. Can you bring me to bed?”

Eagerness flashed in Greg’s eyes, much to Sherlock’s interest. “R-Really? Sure!” He obeyed immediately, setting Sherlock down on the sheets behind Mycroft and John. He sat beside Sherlock, much to Sherlock’s delight.

John crawled up the bed to Sherlock, and fell on him with an encouraging hug.

It was exactly the extra boost of love and confidence that he needed. Sherlock hugged him back. As long as he had John, he could do anything.

That left Mycroft at some distance from the rest of them.

“Mycroft,” Greg said. He held out a hand to his sweetheart.

Slowly, Mycroft crawled to join them.

But Sherlock rudely intercepted him. He pulled at Mycroft’s arm, making him collapse on top of Sherlock. 

“Ah!” The indignity of it was enough to make Mycroft forget his hesitance. He propped himself up on his elbows, and glared at Sherlock. “Brother dear—!”

Quickly, Sherlock took hold of Mycroft’s face. He stubbornly recalled the directions that Greg’s hands had given him, and repeated them loudly in his head, in an attempt to drown out the doubts and worries that were bubbling to the surface. It was Sherlock’s job to ignore his fears. This was for Mycroft. Carefully, he set his fingers into place. Mycroft’s skin was softer than Greg’s. His face was different, longer in some respects, different hairline, virtually no stubble. Fingers go here. Palms go here. 

Mycroft, petrified, couldn’t stop staring at Sherlock.

“It’s… not the same,” Sherlock said, after a long, tortuous pause in which he pretended to try to initiate things on his own. “You and Greg are too different. It’s not the same. I can’t do it alone. I still need help, please.” Sherlock’s voice cracked, and there was nothing fake about it. He couldn’t help it. He was about to request something unbelievable. “Show me, how do I kiss you?”

“Show you…?” Mycroft alarm slowly began to fade, into the familiar fraternal concern. “Is that… what you want? Or, is this… for my benefit?”

“No, not that! I…” Sherlock was going to explode any minute. “Please, isn’t this what we both want?”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it must be.”

“Then…?”

Mycroft carefully grasped Sherlock’s cheek.

It had been so wonderfully easy, after all, to lead Mycroft astray. “Kiss me…?”

With a demeanour of fierce concentration, Mycroft kissed Sherlock, in such a way as to show him how the act was done. He went about it at an instructor’s pace, doing one thing at a time and repeating himself so that Sherlock could void his panic and accustom himself to the way his brother reverently treated him.

With his mouth, Sherlock felt for everything that Mycroft did. Step by step, he copied those loving and languid touches. He tingled as his own movements encountered Mycroft’s. Finally, Sherlock gave everything he had to Mycroft, letting his hands come around to hold Mycroft’s hair, so that he could kiss him as deeply as he had kissed Greg. Mycroft surrendered completely to Sherlock, his lips yielding to Sherlock’s lead. It tore Sherlock up inside, feeling Mycroft analyse him in turn, feeling Mycroft’s breath warm him from the inside. 

Greg and John were not saying anything. 

Far too soon, the weight of what he was doing, and what he had done, caught up with Sherlock. He felt tears coming on. He was getting himself into something that would change his life, and it was terrifying. He ceased the kiss, muttering. “Was that all right?”

“Sherlock, my dear.” Mycroft laid his arms down around Sherlock, keeping him pinned there. He chastely pressed his lips to Sherlock’s cheek. At the very least, he had made Mycroft happy. “That was wonderful.”

“Mycroft… I’m…” Sherlock shook his head at himself. As much as he yearned to lead Mycroft completely down the wrong path, he couldn’t be so unkind as to demand that final piece from him. “I’m sorry, but, please, are you going to use me soon?”

With a soft smile, Mycroft thought that one over. Before he could speak, though, the man behind Sherlock beat him to it.

“Sherlock, wait,” Greg said, his tone strange. “Just so you know, Mycroft’s already used you, right?”

Mycroft grimaced, with a guilty expression.

Sherlock, not understanding, frowned. What was Greg talking about? “No, he hasn’t…”

“Yes, he has.” Greg looked down at Sherlock’s upside down face. “I get the impression that you think about it like Mycroft has to make love to you for it to count as him using you. I don’t think it’s like that, though. Mycroft and I, we’ve both already been using you, in the sense that we really do like doing things with you, in front of you, anything, really. We didn’t fake anything we did with you in the room, trust me. Doesn’t all that also that count as, well, using you?”

A sensation of alarm filled Sherlock. “I never meant to suggest otherwise.”

“Greg, love,” Mycroft said softly. “I think Sherlock specifically wants me to use him in the most self-serving way possible.”

Sherlock blinked at Mycroft. He didn’t want to say anything to correct him, but he knew that he had to. “That’s… not really it.”

Mycroft looked at him, not quite believing him. “No?”

“I…” Sherlock swallowed. 

“Sherlock said before,” John said bravely, “that he wanted to see you lose control of things.”

Mycroft and Greg both paid all their attention to John. Sherlock marvelled at their overwhelming respect for him.

John seemed to mistake that respect for something more judgmental, since he grew a little meek. “Um, usually, you two, um. You two try so hard to make sure that Sherlock and I are okay. We get the feeling that you two aren’t letting yourselves go, completely, for fear of keeping of us safe. I think that, what Sherlock wants, and what I want, too… That would be, you two, letting go completely, not worrying about anything for a little while. Sherlock and I, we’re always okay with you, anyway, but, um, I guess I can see that it would be hard to keep in mind, if you two don’t have a good way to know that we are always okay. So you’d have to focus on a lot of things all at once, while looking after us, and that’s probably too hard…”

Sherlock hadn’t thought of it like that before. It gave him an idea. “John, are you saying that Mycroft and Greg can’t let loose with us entirely, because they are too busy monitoring us?”

Mycroft and Greg exchanged very sympathetic looks.

John nodded briskly. 

“Is… Is that all?” Sherlock continued excitedly. It energised him to know that only such a small barrier kept him and John from turning Mycroft and Greg to putty. “Why, we can do that for them!”

John’s head tilted. “We can?”

“Yes! I will watch John, and John will watch me! Then, you won’t have to focus on if we are okay or not! You would know that we are, as long as we don’t see that there’s anything wrong with the other!” This way, Sherlock and John could take care of everything, at least for tonight.

“Ah, I get it.” Greg was quick to get into the spirit of things. “So, as long as you don’t say ‘John needs a break’ or something, we know you’re all right.”

“Right! And if we don’t say it, then you can keep going! Doing whatever you like!”

Mycroft thought about it for far too long, or that was how it seemed to Sherlock. “We may try it,” he said at last.

John was happy about it, too. “That’s a brilliant idea, Sherlock.”

It was that kind of praise, given without warning, that made Sherlock warm and tingly all over.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered to him abruptly. “Do you still want to hear my answer?”

A current of tension flushed through Sherlock.

Mycroft leaned closer to kiss Sherlock’s cheek again. This gesture was slower this time, more deliberate. It felt starkly intimate and familiar. Mycroft spoke sweetly to him. “You’ve been very patient, brother mine. I won’t make you wait any longer. I am… I am ready, now.”

Sherlock gasped, while his heart pounded against his weak frame. Had his time come, finally? “Ah? Right now? With me, you’ll…? You’ll…?”

“Yes, but really, are you being so cute on purpose?” 

“Then, are you going to prepare me, too? Like last time?” Sherlock smirked coyly. “I really liked the last time.”

Exhaling with difficulty, Mycroft moved back to sit upright. “All right. Let’s see. First I need the—”

“Here, I got it!” Greg immediately passed Mycroft a familiar jar, which no one else had seen Greg obtain.

Mycroft accepted it and held it delicately. “Ah,” he joked lightly, “eager to see what comes next, are we, dear?”

Greg blushed. “Just… trying to be helpful.”

“Do you really want to see it, though, Greg?” Sherlock asked. “What Mycroft’s… going to do to me?” He asked this largely out of deliberate deviousness, though it was genuinely important to him to know how Greg felt about it.

The question was far too much for Greg. He laughed awkwardly. “Well...” 

Sherlock hadn’t realised, until that moment, that both Greg and John would be watching all of this happen, from start to finish, from a close distance. It made him burn with nervousness, and with desire. It was incredibly important to him, that Sherlock and Mycroft astound Greg and John with how much love they could express with their soft words and softer touches.

“I want to see,” John said quietly. 

Sherlock didn’t have any more doubts after that.

\--

Mycroft never doubted that Greg was the pillar of their group. He was the master of the house. When Sherlock had courted Greg on Mycroft’s behalf, Greg had taken the deception in stride. When Mycroft had not known what to do about Sherlock’s solitary streak, Greg had selflessly helped him through it. When John had come to present the latest draft of his work, his benefactor kindly never let John feel like a stranger in the house, and tempered his own longing to have John become even more familiar.

In return, Greg didn’t ask for much. Generally, he let himself take more of a support role. Or was that right? On rare but multiple occasions, Mycroft had seen how Greg had come into problems of his own. More precisely, Greg had been torn apart by love which had seemed unrequited at the time. Still, at those times as well, Greg had tried his best to be loving and supportive toward his family. 

On the other hand, Mycroft knew exactly what unspeakable thing it was that Greg silently wished for. Well, he liked Mycroft, and Mycroft liked him, but there was more than that. There were things that Greg couldn’t ask for. Mycroft couldn’t ask for them, either, though he wanted them as much as Greg did.

It was Sherlock and John, in that combination.

There were days when he and Greg spent hours talking about Sherlock and John. They wondered if their two little ones were happy, and how they could make things better for them. They talked about the vivacity of Sherlock’s imagination, and the plots of John’s latest stories. Most of all, they teased one another with suggestions of how much Sherlock and John loved each other, and what the two of them might do together, under the protection of Mycroft and Greg.

So it bothered Mycroft, enough to give him pause, that it was him and not John who was joining with Sherlock tonight. By all measures, it should be John doing this, not Mycroft.

“Mycroft, get off,” Sherlock quipped.

Mycroft had to shake off his thoughts, to understand what Sherlock had said. “Get off?”

“I want to hug Greg.”

Well, that was unexpected, given what Mycroft was readying himself to do. Still, they had both waited this long. Mycroft was willing to wait a little longer, for Sherlock’s and Greg’s sakes. Mycroft removed himself entirely from Sherlock. “Certainly.”

Sherlock hurried to turn around and crawl up to Greg. He hugged him from on his knees.

Greg lit up with delight at the display of affection, and returned the hug. “Hi, there?”

John moved closer to Mycroft. “Um, would it be all right with you, if I, um, start helping?”

Mycroft found that to be endearing, and keeping in character with John’s newfound bravery. “By all means.” He wasn’t sure what kind of help John had in mind exactly, but it was simply too precious, how much John and Greg wanted to support them.

That was the thought that was in Mycroft’s head, anyway, the moment before Sherlock and John conspired to blow all thoughts clear away.

From where he was behind Sherlock, John put a hand on Sherlock’s trousers. “I’ll, um, get this for you, okay, Sherlock?” His hands came around to the buttons on the front.

“Okay.” Sherlock held more tightly onto Greg’s waist, making himself comfortable against Greg, letting John work.

Greg was speechless. Nonetheless, his arms continued to accept Sherlock without hesitation. 

John undid Sherlock’s trousers, and carefully lowered them, down past Sherlock’s socks. 

Mycroft should have been intensely ashamed at himself, when he looked immediately for evidence of arousal in Sherlock’s revealed pants. Instead, he was relieved, and gratified, to see Sherlock partially concealed in a desirous state.

John turned back to Mycroft. “Um, Mycroft?” John pointed to the jar in Mycroft’s hands. “C-Can you show me, how you use that?”

Naturally, Mycroft hadn’t forgotten the promise he had made earlier to John. He’d never imagined it would be fulfilled in quite this way, however. “Of course,” he managed to say. He took hold of Sherlock’s underwear, and lowered it for John, until it was off of Sherlock’s legs completely.

Sherlock shook slightly. He breathed deeply, as did Greg.

This worried Mycroft, until John noticed that Mycroft was worrying, and stopped him in the act. “Sherlock’s okay, trust me, Mycroft. He wants you to keep going. Reassure him a little, he’ll be fine.”

Mycroft wasted no time in obeying. He caressed Sherlock’s rear, acclimating the feel of his hand to Sherlock’s skin. “Hush, it’s all right,” he murmured, caressing more than necessary, “it’s all right.”

Sherlock whimpered. 

An insatiable warmth swam through Mycroft’s body. Doing his best to ignore that for now, Mycroft massaged up Sherlock’s back. “How are you feeling?” He made sure the touch would soothe, as well as excite. He wanted Sherlock to want this with all his being. 

A needy whine escaped Sherlock’s throat. “G-Good. I’m ready. I’m ready, I swear.”

“You’re shaking,” Greg whispered, his voice having sunk deep into the bowels of the earth.

“You heard John. I’m fine, Greg. Though…” Sherlock swallowed. “You’ll keep me steady, even if I shake,” he whispered back. “Won’t you?”

That comment inflamed Mycroft’s heart with affection and desire. The image of Greg holding Sherlock still, while Mycroft moved into him… 

Indeed, Greg was red-faced with his readiness to keep Sherlock steady. He seemed to be at the edge of what his own heart could take, overwhelmed by how much Sherlock trusted him.

John’s hand settled onto Mycroft’s shoulder. He only smiled and gave Mycroft his support.

Seeing his beautiful John smile so freely at Mycroft, and with such certainty in what they were doing, lifted Mycroft’s spirit high above the clouds. He stopped and dipped his hand into the jar, and coated his fingers. He did make a point of illustrating to John precisely how much lubricant he took, but he wasn’t fooling himself. He knew who was really leading the show here.

“One finger, to start. Very slowly. See?” Mycroft brought one finger to Sherlock’s rear, slowly, making everything he did clear to John as he did so. Sherlock was nervous, and tight, but not afraid. John was attentive, a good study, excited by what Mycroft was showing him. The obscene combination of fondness and lust that was tearing through Mycroft would ruin him for good.

Sherlock hummed with interest. “It feels… good, Greg.”

Greg was startled. “Eh? Me?” Then again, in the overly eager state he was in, startling Greg would have been easy.

“I thought… you’d like to know,” Sherlock retorted huskily. “How… nice, this is.” He buried his face securely against Greg’s sternum, trusting his entire body to the care of two men who loved him. “This is nice.”

Greg was only too happy to hold Sherlock’s head to his breast. “I’ve got you,” he promised.

Mycroft bit his own lip harshly. This wasn’t fair at all. Greg and Sherlock were perfect together.

With a curious expression, John rested a hand reassuringly on Mycroft’s own hand, which was moving its digit inside of Sherlock. John gripped Mycroft’s hand well enough to study its movements.

Mycroft gasped at the touch. 

“Like… this, Mycroft…?” John began to move Mycroft’s hand for him, trying to emulate what he had been doing before. Despite John’s courage, his movements were cautious and shallow. It was clear that he didn’t know what might hurt Sherlock, and was erring on the side of safety.

Sherlock didn’t seem to mind at all. He arched slightly against Greg, and exhaled dreamily.

John was a quick learner. 

Greg was hypnotised. “Uh, let me get this for you,” he murmured, as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt, while Sherlock held onto him. Mycroft watched with fascination how Sherlock trusted himself to Greg’s care. Greg couldn’t remove Sherlock’s shirt completely, since Sherlock never unwound himself from about him, though he did as best he could.

“Mycroft?” John asked, when Mycroft had stalled. He had forgotten what it was he was there to do.

“Ah, right…” Mycroft was glad, more than ever, to have John’s support. He couldn’t imagine ever trusting himself alone to put his dear Sherlock in a situation like this, so cared for but also so vulnerable, without both Greg and John to help. Mycroft added another finger, and then another not long after.

Sherlock was too comfortable in his position between Greg and Mycroft to take much notice.

John removed his hand from Mycroft’s and turned to Mycroft’s clothes. “Some of this needs to go, right?” 

“Ah?” Mycroft was too struck for words. “I…” 

“Right.” John retreated to behind Mycroft, so that he was not in the way, while his purposeful fingers asserted themselves onto Mycroft’s own shirt and trousers. “I’ll get this for you.”

Despite this emotionally trying setback, Mycroft nodded and pressed on. He was stretching Sherlock with all of his fingers now, but it wouldn’t be enough to fully prepare him for what was to come. He would have to be careful. He had to make sure Sherlock was never uncomfortable, and never in pain. The thought of such an awful occurrence made him slow down, and falter.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “Mycroft…”

John noticed. “Sherlock,” he said. “You’re still good, right?”

“Yes, but I’ll be better if things move along.”

Of course, Mycroft remembered that John was responsible for Sherlock now, and it was an endless relief to hear that Sherlock was all right. Still, such an agreement had been easier said than done. He’d tricked himself into getting this far, but it was hard to let himself go completely, after a lifetime of practising restraint, of stewardship.

John had loosened Mycroft’s clothes, but Mycroft didn’t want to remove them. He couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly. He could feel Greg’s loving and encouraging gaze upon him, but also Greg’s concern, and Greg’s conflicted desire, which mirrored Mycroft’s own. They were always so concerned, he and Greg. 

What did Greg think of him now?

“Sherlock,” John said again, more loudly.

Sherlock’s voice was full of impatience. “John? What’s going on?”

“It’s, um…” John rubbed his lip thoughtfully. “It’s Mycroft, and Greg… They’re…”

“For the love of…!” Sherlock groaned hyperbolically, expressing an impatient disposition that did not match the nervousness of his body. “What are they? Still worried?”

“Yeah…”

Mycroft and Greg exchanged looks, but Sherlock wasn’t about to let either of them take over again.

“Well, I have another idea!” Sherlock looked back at John. “You lead, John!”

John’s mouth formed a perfect circle. “Me?”

“Yes! You lead, not Mycroft!”

Mycroft didn’t say anything yet. He was sure an explanation for such an outlandish interjection was forthcoming.

“I… lead…?”

Sherlock returned to burying himself against Greg’s breast, ignoring Greg’s surprise. “Mycroft needs your help,” he mumbled. “So, you lead. You… help Mycroft do things… and tell him what to do. Lead him.”

“I… lead…?” John bowed his head. Then, he spoke to Mycroft, a cautiously-amused smile growing. “Hey, that would be like… me being part of Sherlock’s first time. In a way? Even if it’s actually you, not me?”

Mycroft didn’t believe he understood what John meant, though he did.

Greg grimaced, also not believing that he understood. “I’m… not really following…”

“Show them, John. Go on.”

“Okay. Okay. Um…” John touched Sherlock’s arm. “Ah, are you ready?”

“Yes, please! Now, John. I can’t wait any longer. It feels like I’ve been waiting forever!”

“I know… um… we’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Yes, it’s terrifying,” Sherlock agreed, and it sounded like he was happy about it.

John giggled. “Yeah...” 

“Our most terrifying adventure yet,” Sherlock murmured.

John gently pried the jar of lubricant from Mycroft’s weak fingers, and set it to his side. “Sherlock, I, um… I’ve wanted to do this for you… for a long time,” he said, imbuing the weight of his feelings into each word. “I’m, um...” His cheeks grew very heated. “I know I’m new to this, so, to be extra careful… I’m going to use Mycroft to do it, for our first time, okay?”

Mycroft could no longer deny that he understood. 

“Good heavens,” Greg whispered. 

Mycroft’s head was whirring. Could he really be useful to them, in this manner? He couldn’t ignore how much more aroused he instantly became.

“Yes,” Sherlock all but moaned in approval. “God, please, yes.”

Something pulled violently deep inside of Mycroft’s body. John and Sherlock were going to use him.

John asked him, “Mycroft? How is this?”

Mycroft only nodded his approval, because he couldn’t find it in himself to speak just yet.

John removed Mycroft’s clothes for him, which Mycroft allowed him to do without hesitation. Then, he wetted his palms with the contents from the jar, and, from behind Mycroft, he covered Mycroft with some of the lotion. It was a relatively swift motion, and yet Mycroft had to close his eyes and do his best not to lose himself already. It thrilled him merely to know that John would touch him like this. He would do whatever John asked of him.

“John, please…”

John grabbed Mycroft by the hips, angled him, and pushed him forward.

Sherlock inhaled sharply.

Mycroft grabbed around Sherlock, and steadied himself against the bliss and tenderness that had suddenly seared his heart like a hot blade. Sherlock was warm and beautiful. He felt good, but Sherlock was always good. Mycroft felt distinctly that he could overwhelm his brother with everything that Sherlock had asked for. He could flood Sherlock with pleasant sensations, as soon as John and Sherlock said he could. He wouldn’t move anymore, unless the two of them allowed it. Mycroft realised, belatedly, that his arms had hooked just above Greg’s.

A small moan escaped Greg. Mycroft shook because of it. 

“Greg,” John asked. “Can you please keep Sherlock there?”

Greg blushed. “Yeah…”

“Greg… John…” All of Sherlock’s impatience was gone, replaced by a profound calmness. One of his hands must have left its position on Greg’s back, because Mycroft felt it upon one of his own. “Mycroft…”

Mycroft tried to say something, but he couldn’t. His throat was useless, convulsing with emotion.

John was on top of everything, much to Mycroft’s gratitude. “Sherlock, is this good?”

Sherlock’s reply was small. “Yes… but am I good… for you…?”

“Yes, of course.” Naturally, John was eager to support Sherlock. “Yes, always! You always are. I… I like this a lot.”

“Me, too.”

Mycroft tried to hum in the affirmative, to be supportive also. It was a pathetic attempt. Sherlock was so warm. Had Sherlock ever been this warm?

“More, John, I want more, please.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more, John. Please.”

John moved Mycroft’s hips back, and then forward again.

Sherlock’s voice vibrated with gratification. “Ah…” Sherlock’s body moved easily with Mycroft’s, grinding itself into Greg’s, making Greg wince. Mycroft’s little brother made sounds of deep pleasure. He was also innocently fascinated by it all. “More,” he entreated John. “I want more.”

Mycroft lost control of himself for good. His lust-filled love for Sherlock consumed him. It was imperative that he please Sherlock, to the very best of his ability. He would do better for Sherlock than he had ever been able to when he had been nothing more than Sherlock’s distant older brother. He would be the perfect toy for John to use on Sherlock.

Greg would see him be their toy, too. Greg was watching him now.

With John’s hands still upon him and still guiding him, Mycroft moved on his own. He took Sherlock in the way that would please Sherlock best, that would make Sherlock sing, with no teasing, and no restraint. If Sherlock desired him, even a little, then Sherlock would have him.

Sherlock moaned happily. “Mycroft.” His bent legs parted further, welcoming Mycroft to move deeper into him.

That drove Mycroft positively mad. With his little brother’s name hanging at his lips, he seized upon Sherlock, letting John dictate his pace, but making no great effort to curb the insatiable way in which he thrust against Sherlock. Mycroft would see to it that Sherlock got as much as he wanted of this.

“God, yes,” Sherlock rasped. Mycroft’s movements flowed through him, still bringing him shamelessly against Mycroft’s beloved Greg.

That was, until Greg held Sherlock still, keeping him fixed on the sheets and in his arms. “Come on,” he whispered protestingly with a smile. “A man can only take so much of this.”

Taken aback, Sherlock stared up at Greg. 

Greg kissed Sherlock’s forehead. “You like being held, tight, like this, right?”

Sherlock couldn’t say anything especially coherent. “Yes, please, Greg!”

“Hey, don’t worry,” Greg said. “I’ve got you. Go ahead, I’ve got you.”

The furious growl that came out of Mycroft was deceptively tame. He could see too well what Greg was doing. Now that none of them were holding back, Greg was choosing to shower Sherlock with all of his quiet, eternal affection for him. Greg wanted to be Sherlock’s rock. Maybe Greg had never expressed that enough. 

Mycroft understood this all very well, but that didn’t make it affect him any less. He longed achingly to fill Sherlock with pleasure, to drive Sherlock into Greg, to give them both to each other.

Mycroft was completely startled, however, by John’s small, strong voice right behind him. It was a personal voice, meant for him specifically. “You’re so good at doing this for him, Mycroft.” One of John’s hands curved up Mycroft’s side, to hold onto him at the pit of his arm. It made Mycroft feel safe and secure. “Keep going, it’s okay.”

John had control of him. Mycroft trusted him, to keep him from hurting Sherlock by mistake. Mycroft could focus on making Sherlock feel good. But he wouldn’t lie to himself anymore; Sherlock made him feel good, too.

Without warning, the edges of Mycroft’s vision violently blacked out. It hardly mattered why. All he could think of was how much he needed his lively, eccentric little brother, and these two other kind, sweet men who didn’t mind that.

\--

Sherlock couldn’t hold on. He couldn’t contain himself, in between John’s and Mycroft’s generous thrusting, and Greg’s gentle kindness. When he heard Mycroft gasp and felt his release inside of himself, Sherlock nearly gave out, too. It almost hurt, how close he was, how much he wanted to—

Greg’s hand stroked him indulgently. The blow of mixed euphoria and affection for Greg that smacked Sherlock was staggering. “Here, come on,” Greg softly encouraged him. “It’s all right.”

Mere moments later, Sherlock made a mess over Greg’s shirt, even making a rather flamboyant point of doing so. He wanted them to see everything that they wanted to see. He belonged to Greg, and to Mycroft, and to John. He would give them anything if he could. Besides for these imperatives, his mind was blank, whited out with a single feeling of contentment.

He felt Mycroft’s chest on his back, and his breathing. “Ah… Sherlock…” Mycroft slowly removed himself, an action that Sherlock didn’t altogether like. A final pang of anxiety made him wonder if Mycroft had really enjoyed him.

But Greg certainly had, judging from the way he half-stared, half-laughed. Greg pushed Sherlock to enough of a distance so that he could shimmy out of his dirty shirt and tossed it aside. While he did so, he said to Sherlock, “You should really take a look at your brother.” 

That was a good idea. Sherlock turned around. 

Greg was right. Mycroft was a reassuring sight. He was still recovering, and it was John’s help alone that kept him steady, but that didn’t matter. Mycroft seemed satisfied, and partially in shock at what they had done. Mycroft looked at Sherlock, not knowing what to expect from him.

Once all was said and done, Sherlock felt pride at his own usefulness. He’d finally done it with Mycroft, and with John, too, in a sense. Sherlock huffed with laughter. “Thank you so much, John,” he teased. “You should use Mycroft on me more often.”

Mycroft cleared his throat adorably. “Y-Yes, well…”

John’s modesty fell all over him, partially veiling the intense relief and happiness Sherlock’s words had produced in him. “I’m so glad it was okay.”

Shakily, Sherlock crawled over to Mycroft, and gave him a hard hug. Ages-old emotions gathered inside him, and brought tears to the corner of his eyes. Hugging Mycroft felt the same as it always had, even though there was more skin involved than normal. 

After a moment, Mycroft calmly embraced him back, raising fingers to Sherlock’s hair as he did so. That, more than anything, made Sherlock feel great about himself. Things would never be the same between him and his older brother again, but that was exciting, too. This could be a good thing. They could love each other however they wanted to. They would be brothers, and they would be husbands, all at once.

That was a fact that Sherlock, being as immature and clever as he was loyal, and also being influenced by endorphins, could only use to his advantage. “Big brother. Next time, don’t leave me so soon, okay?”

Mycroft’s inarticulate sputtering was adorable. “Well, I… fine, I won’t.”

“Good.”

Mycroft let Sherlock relax against him, and for once, Sherlock felt no urge to chide Mycroft for his soppiness. 

“Oh,” John’s voice popped.

As one, Sherlock and Mycroft looked at John. John had been moving toward Greg, but Greg had kept John away, for one very obvious reason.

Greg scratched the back of his neck, a tad shy, since everyone was looking squarely at his tented crotch. Still, Greg wasn’t so bothered. “What can I say?” He shrugged and smiled. “You three were so gorgeous. I… still can’t believe I got to see that. I wish I could have kept a painting to remember that by. It was…” Greg laughed shyly. “Just, well, thank you. Really, thank you. I’m the luckiest guy ever. I have three of the most fantastic husbands.”

Sherlock was delighted to hear that. Any evidence that Greg wasn’t any longer the friendless nobleman whom Sherlock had accidentally befriended made Sherlock’s spirit rise a little higher.

Mycroft was delighted, too. “Ah, but it was us four, Greg. You were as necessary as the rest.”

Greg must have not been sure of that before, because his smile grew wider and his shoulders lifted. Mycroft brightened like a star as a result, a reaction Sherlock found infinitely fascinating. A thought occurred to him that he wouldn’t mind if he stayed in Mycroft’s arms forever.

“Three?” John said.

This remark confused Mycroft and Greg. Neither of them understood to what John was referring. Sherlock did, though. He knew John too well.

“Three… what?” Greg said.

“You said… you have three husbands?”

“Yeah?” Greg didn’t see anything remarkable about this any more than Mycroft did.

John pursed his lips. 

Greg’s tone changed. “Yeah, I did say that.”

Sherlock peered closely at John. John had been so bold before, but now, he was holding his own hands, shaking, and he wasn’t sure where to look. Surely, John knew by now that he belonged in this bedroom with them, and yet there was still that social boundary which John had internalised.

John still couldn’t believe that he was as much a part of this as the rest of them.

A pained look played at the corners of Greg’s face. “You’re my husband, too, John. Our husband, I mean. You know that?”

“I, um, I do know that.” Nothing in John’s manner was convincing. “Sorry,” he added guiltily, “I guess I forget sometimes…”

“Ah, damn it,” Greg muttered. “Come here.” He reached out and pulled John to him, doing his best to ignore his aroused state. Of course, Greg would find it more important to put John at ease than to worry about such things. Though, he was possibly not aware of the way in which he pulled John’s face to his bare chest, while Sherlock certainly was. “You’re my husband,” Greg insisted softly.

John giggled self-consciously.

“No, no, I mean it, please.” Greg kept hold of him. “You’re my husband, just like Mycroft and Sherlock are. Anything I’d do for them, I do for you. I think of you the same way. Er, is that the right way to put it? John—”

“I know, Greg.” John’s arms encircled Greg, “You’ve done so much… to make me feel like I belong here. I’m so grateful for that, and… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Greg’s demeanour immediately changed colour. A loud protectiveness flared up from within him. “No, no, hey, don’t worry about it!” Greg held John to him as if his life depended upon it.

The two of them were heartrendingly beautiful together. Sherlock could almost feel Mycroft’s smile at the sight of Greg and John trying to be closer. Sherlock still remembered how much Greg had needed John, when they’d gone to the pub. 

Did John have feelings like that, too?

Sherlock could make sure that John and Greg got what they needed most. He could be the one to take charge now, like John had done for him. 

“John.” Without preamble, Sherlock moved back to where John was, and since Sherlock was holding onto Mycroft, Mycroft was more or less pulled along with him like a child’s plaything. 

John, still secure in Greg’s arms, peeked back at Sherlock. 

“I think you should know, Greg… was thinking about you, this morning,” Sherlock put his most bashful voice to work, which wasn’t hard, given the subject matter. “Greg couldn’t stop talking about you. He took me to the loo, and… before I knew it, he was… pushing me against the wall… still talking about you.” Sherlock glanced up at Greg, checking for Greg’s approval.

Greg was exquisitely flustered. Gone was his easy attitude toward what he and Sherlock had done earlier that day. He had been so quick to joke about it with Mycroft before. Now, he was shy, and uncertain.

John sounded unbearably hopeful. “Really?”

“Greg couldn’t forget about you, no matter what we did. More than anything, he wanted you…” Sherlock spoke quietly. “What he was doing for me… he wanted to do for you, too…”

“What was he doing for you?” Mycroft was compelled to ask. His tone was exceedingly gentle, but lower than the floor.

“I… can’t say it.” Sherlock tilted his head, embracing all his very sincere feelings of shyness as he did so. “Greg, could you, maybe… show Mycroft, for me?” He batted his eyes, and simpered. “Do… what you did, again? But… with John?”

Shocked, John froze.

Greg’s eyes went wide. His fingers fidgeted on John’s back. For all that Greg had said about treating his three husbands the same, Sherlock thought sadly, there was still that hesitation. Greg still didn’t want to be selfish with John. Greg and John went to such lengths to avoid hurting one another, like they couldn’t stand the thought of it.

“I promise, I’ll watch him for you,” Sherlock didn’t hesitate to add, for Greg’s benefit, trying to remind Greg that he didn’t have to be so concerned about John right now. Sherlock would take care of that for him.

Every corner of Greg’s face was strained. “I… I…”

“Can I?” John asked suddenly, with a too-high pitch.

Not understanding, Greg hesitated. “What?”

Then, John did something that made Sherlock’s mind short out completely.

John weakly brushed his crotch against Greg’s. It was hardly any pressure at all, barely a contact of clothes. John, brave as he was, was too nervous to do much more than that.

Greg said nothing. Before John had done something so bold, Greg had been stuttering, and indecisive. Now, he wasn’t stuttering, and Sherlock could perceive that there was a new look in his eyes.

John’s nervousness grew exponentially. “Um, was that okay—?”

Finally, Greg rocked into John, bringing body flush against body, brushing them together as if nothing had ever kept them apart.

John gasped. 

“Good?” Greg breathed.

A very soft nod answered him. “Yes…”

Sherlock was keenly aware of the way Mycroft shuddered from the sight of them. Mycroft struggled between staring and looking away, before Sherlock pointedly drew him back. It was imperative that Mycroft be a part of this. Mycroft might not know it, but John and Greg needed the both of them to be here, now more than ever.

A single grateful glance from Greg’s heated gaze was sent in Sherlock’s direction. Then, Greg rubbed against John, with a more solid movement than before, pressing all his generous warmth into John.

A long, shuddering moan escaped John.

Instantly, an uncontrollable, wild fervour possessed Greg. He turned John down onto the bed and rubbed against him with intense passion, grunting as he did so. “Sweetheart,” Greg murmured almost unintelligibly, as he used his own body to please John. 

John was all but swept away by Greg’s torrent of affection. “Greg…”

Greg couldn’t manage words, but the words weren’t necessary. His knees kept John to the bed. He was claiming John, doing everything he could to make John feel pleasure.

John was just as overwhelmed. “More, please...” His body started to respond to Greg’s vigour with tiny thrusts against Greg’s own body. John was trying to take care of Greg, too. 

Greg kissed John, in a desperate haste, as if Greg wanted to express his love to every part of John. Greg combined and recombined with John, not shying away from using his larger body size to cover John, showering John with equal measures of loyal tenderness and intoxicated ardour. 

John returned the gestures as best he could. He did not seem to mind at all his position underneath Greg. Quite the contrary, he seemed sweetly content to let Greg go as far with him as he wanted. He trusted Greg entirely, which, incidentally, had the consequence of making Greg lose what remained of his control.

Greg stroked the two of them, together, crying at the magnitude of his own actions as he did so. John continued to moan with enjoyment.

Sherlock and Mycroft watched, their hands locking unbreakably with one another’s. Their other hands, quite on their own, came to rest supportively on the shoulders of John and Greg, which may have helped to ease the lovesick tumult raging deep inside the two of them just a little. 

\--

Mycroft, Greg, Sherlock, and John all stood in the hallway together some weeks later, staring as one at the new artefact on the wall. 

It was a portrait. It wasn’t particularly large, though its large frame gave that impression. Pictured in the foreground was the likeness of Greg, sitting with a demeanour that was far more stern and humourless than ever Greg himself had been. To one side of him was His Lordship’s husband, maintaining a markedly straighter posture than the others. On the other side was the nobleman’s second husband, who was the only one with an accurate expression, as it was characterised by boredom and some annoyance. To the side of this second husband was the fourth character, whose attire and position in the picture failed to inform of his role within the nobleman’s circle. All four characters were connected by their clothes brushing together, and were dressed similarly in formal clothes and warm colours, with a few exceptions of some shinier items that Lord Lestrade wore as a matter of formality.

The portrait had taken its setting from the setup constructed in the study, to better showcase His Lordship’s collection of works in the background. The second husband even held one of those under his arm. 

Mycroft found it to be a quaint portrait. It was nice, he supposed, to have such real, lasting proof as this of the unbroken bonds that they had created with one another.

Greg laughed. “I can’t believe I thought this would do the job.”

Mycroft raised a brow at this remark.

“Well, it improves the aesthetics of this hallway,” Sherlock deadpanned.

“You know what I mean. This is the only thing in this house that shows that the four of us go together, but… it’s not like I thought it would be. You all are way more fun than you seem to be in this picture. I’m glad it gets John in,” he said with a purposeful glance at John, “but, it doesn’t really immortalise how I feel about you three.”

“We might not want it to show exactly how you feel about us,” Mycroft said lightly.

Sherlock and John giggled.

Greg waved off the comment with an easy smile and a sharp blush. “Right, right…”

“I think I like it,” John said. “I know this is silly, and that this is just a picture, but…” He rubbed his own arm with some sheepishness. “I am happy, to see me in the same painting with you three.”

Greg grinned widely at John. “Wait, really?”

Emboldened by Greg’s enthusiasm, John nodded cheerfully.

“Even though the painter made us look like statues?” Greg added, with less enthusiasm. 

Mycroft spread his hands helplessly. “That is the modern style for portraits, unfortunately.”

Sherlock snapped his fingers. “I have an idea. We leave this one here, for visitors, who can enjoy its modern style,” he said with rolling eyes. “Then, we will have a second, secret, more accurate painting done. That one, we’ll keep in the bedroom. You can immortalise us in that one.”

Greg seemed to like the suggestion, but he made a wry face. “Well, unless you can paint, I doubt I could find someone that would paint something like that for us.”

Mycroft hummed. “And would you be willing to endure a sitting for an artist again, Sherlock?”

“That depends,” Sherlock replied. “Can they paint me asleep?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Greg let his head fall on his hand as he continued to consider the painting.

John remained optimistic. “We might not be kissing in it, but at least we are all close together.”

That cheered Greg up a little. “Yeah, that’s true…”

“And, it is a well-done piece of art,” Mycroft offered. “Perhaps, one day, it will have value as a historical record. It may remind us, at some point in the future, of how long we have been together.”

“Yeah?” Greg smiled. “I guess it’s not so bad.”

They all stared silently at the painting for a few more moments.

“Okay, it’ll do for now.” Satisfied, Greg turned away from painting to beam at the other three. “Thanks for this. To be honest… this painting does mean a lot to me. I appreciate it.”

To hear as much swiftly warmed Mycroft’s heart. 

Sherlock turned uncharacteristically shy. “It was no problem...”

John was similarly awed. “Anytime…”

Mycroft took Greg’s face in his hands, and gave him a devoted kiss. It was an act as natural to Mycroft as breathing, and yet it made his pulse race every time he touched Greg so intimately and to feel Greg respond in kind.

Mycroft noticed Sherlock come close to hug Greg stubbornly, and he felt John hug his own body. Before any of them could say quite what happened, the four of them were sharing a group embrace. It wasn’t the simplest of actions, but it was clear to Mycroft that not one of them wanted to separate regardless. Each of them longed endlessly for the warmth of each other. They needed each other too much. 

“Hug on bed?” Sherlock asked, insistently. 

Another moment, and the four of them were gone from the hallway, leaving the portrait as a lone testament to the overwhelming sweetness that had briefly graced its presence.

This particular painting only served to show what had already been true before its inception: that the family of Lord Lestrade was an unusual sort of family of four loving husbands, each of whom had worked hard to choose their love for each other over their own apprehensions and doubts.

The painting paled in comparison to the sublime reality of the four of them lying abed once more, relaxing comfortably in their nightgowns, their arms closely hooked and their lips brushing against one another’s skin, sharing stories and laughing at nothing in particular. 

On the lone portrait in the hallway, on the bottom side of its frame, an inscription read:  _The Family of Lord Lestrade._

End.


End file.
